after me comes the flood
by squigglebee
Summary: In which Draco and Hermione go to South America and learn that you can't break what isn't yours.


Notes: As my only credentials are a few half-hearted years of premed and mad Google skillz, all medical info should be taken with a grain of salt. My only excuse for this story is that I wanted lots of hatesex in the Amazon rainforest. You have been warned. Here's part 1 of 3.

* * *

><p>Six years gone and no one talks about the war, although Hermione dreams most nights. In the best ones, she leaves Malfoy to die. He drowns in fire and ash. In the <em>very <em>best ones, she throws away her wand and pummels him with bare fists. His bones crack against her own.

In real life, she makes him coffee.

Well, not just him. The entire Healers Without Borders staff sing praises to Hermione's brew, but she treasures private fantasies of slipping a painful slow-acting poison into Malfoy's cup. She desists because they share an office and she'd be the one expected to shove a Bezoar down his throat.

Sometimes Hermione thinks the war has cheated them.

It's a horrible thought, one she'd never voice out loud to those who still grieve the empty spaces at their tables, but, by all rights, an event that determined the fate of humanity should have lasted longer. Demanded much more than what it had actually taken. She'd wanted the world in flames, not just a forgotten schoolroom. She'd wanted heat and starvation and hatred and sorrow to roil in her gut until they spilled over and she could taste someone else's blood in her mouth.

She'd wanted the sacrifice to outweigh the reward, so it would be harder to forget.

"Pass the crisps, please," Harry says as they watch telly in her little flat in the heart of Muggle London. He's sprawled out on the couch, the screen's bluish light flickering on his lenses.

She hands him the crinkly foil bag and thinks, _You could have cast an _Avada Kedavra_ at least once in your life, you miserable twat._

It's the worst case of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder ever. Sometimes she almost asks Harry what it had been like to die, but that's his and no one else's, and the closest she'd come was Bellatrix's dagger digging into her skin.

And sometimes in her dreams she wrestles the blade away and stabs the bitch, over and over again.

* * *

><p>Dark faces gaze out amidst backdrops of leaves and dirt. Hermione studies the neatly-labeled photographs, brow knitted in concentration as her fingers shift through distilled time. In the prodromal phase, the infected stare at the camera as suspiciously as they can manage with their swollen cheeks and drooping eyes. Two days from onset, they scratch vigorously at their limbs and torsos, the skin blushed by a strange green rash. In pictures marked with later dates, they're covered in gray boils that swell with pus. She spreads the last set of pictures on her desk like a pack of cards. They writhe on the reed-carpeted floors of their mud huts, mouths open in silent screams. The word <em>dementia <em>is boldly scrawled on the margins, filling the white space with its presence.

"What do you think, Granger?" Blaise asks.

"Symptoms are similar to dragon pox," she automatically replies. "Perhaps a virulent strain exacerbated by humid climate? Intense pain or high fever may induce delirium, after all."

"They have dreams," he says. "Prior to rigor mortis. They talk in their sleep. They die while dreaming."

Hermione frowns. "That's a new one. What are the transmission routes?"

"Fecal-oral and direct contact," Blaise answers, and in her mind she's already cataloging spells for purification of water sources when he clears his throat and adds, "So far."

From his seat across the table, Malfoy tears his gaze from the discarded photographs. "What does _that_ mean?" At the sound of his drawl, Hermione's fingers twitch with the urge to grab the inkpot a few centimeters away and hurl it at him, paint that pale, sharp face in splotches of greasy black.

Blaise rubs his temples. He looks tired. "A week ago there was evidence of transmission in utero. A child was born with the rash. Died four days later. And most recent reports indicate that the diseased have begun to develop a cough."

Hermione starts. "Airborne so soon? That's unusual."

"Everything's unusual about this case," Blaise mutters. He stands up with an air of finality. "You two can take the rest of the day to pack and put your affairs in order. You leave for South America tomorrow, at first light."

Malfoy shoots Hermione a cautious glance. "Zabini, I don't think-"

"This tribe is facing extinction," Blaise interrupts. "We need our best Healers on the job." And because he is still Slytherin, he offers them the ghost of a devious smile. "Congratulations on your new assignment. Malfoy and Granger... This should be fun."

* * *

><p>"You're going to kill him in cold blood," Harry groans.<p>

_I can make it look like an accident, _Hermione thinks grimly as she levitates books and robes into the open suitcase on her bed. "Nonsense," she says aloud. "We took the Oath when we signed up. I'm confident Malfoy and I won't allow personal grudges to interfere with professional duty."

"How long will you be gone?"

She fights down a spark of impatience at the plaintive whine in Ron's voice. "I _told_ you, Ronald. Finding a cure for a new disease- or, at the very least, getting it under control- isn't an overnight process. It could take months. Perhaps even a year or two."

Ron scowls. "I just don't understand why you have to work with Malfoy, of all people."

"He placed second to me at the Trials," Hermione reminds him. "A gifted Healer is a valuable asset to an infected community." _And in other news, I can't believe the tripe that comes out of my mouth sometimes._

She continues to pack, only half-listening to Harry's words that flit between misgiving and encouragement and Ron's bitter complaints about distance and risk. There had been a time when she would have found their concern endearing. Now it only makes her more eager for escape.

* * *

><p>With thirty minutes to go before activation, the International Portkey gleams silver and sleek on Blaise's desk, a far cry from its ubiquitous short-range counterparts, bearing silent witness to an argument.<p>

"Hippocrates' Shield is the most logical choice," says Malfoy. "Ten-second casting time, fade minimum at no less than twenty-four hours-"

"In a _rainforest?" _Hermione snorts. "Humidity degrades that particular spell, remember? We'd be infected in less than a day. The Cloak of Paracelsus, on the other hand-"

"Doesn't circumvent mosquitoes," he cuts her off with an arrogance that sets her teeth on edge. "Insect vectors remain a possibility. Avicenna's Veil, however-"

"That's self-sacrificial magic, Malfoy! The toll it would exact on our blood levels-"

"What do you think Blood Replenishing Potion is for, Granger?"

"Impractical," she snaps. "We'd have to bring along a shipload of the stuff."

She drums her fingers on the table, deep in thought, finally brightening when inspiration strikes. "How about Galen's Armor?"

"Pain in the arse. It takes five whole minutes to cast and fades every ten hours."

"So we'll set alarms," she counters. "Come off it. The Armor maintains hundred percent potency in all sorts of climate. It's elegant, unobtrusive..." She trails off at the shuttered look that spreads across his face, the expression that never fails to tell her she's won.

"Fine," he sighs. "Come here."

She steps closer to him. Only the foolhardiest of Healers cast Immuni-Spells on themselves. You get a colleague to do it for you, or you miss a spot and wind up a victim of the illness you're trying to fight. He conjures a net of brilliant turquoise light above her head that slowly trails down to cover her entire body, in tandem with the sweeping movements of his wand. She can smell his scent of frosty cologne and sandalwood aftershave; she's eye level with the pulse point at his collarbone.

"_Fire in my heart, water in my blood," _he murmurs in Latin, so softly it fell in the quiet, shadowed room like a prayer. _"Air in my lungs, earth in my bones..."_

She almost shuts her eyes. He's figured in her violent murder dreams so long and so often that she can't stand the nearness, the warmth. She might break on his angles, on the spiky tips of his lashes. He is translucent at the edges through the shifting haze of spell-light.

Malfoy's a head taller than Hermione is, so when it's her turn she has to tiptoe. His lip curls. She glares in warning. It would be laughably easy to wipe that smirk off his face with her fist, but the years have taught her nothing if not restraint. Instead her voice frames the incantation; she spills light all over him. Her breath rasps against the ivory skin of his neck. Does she imagine it, the way his gray eyes flicker, how his shoulders tense?

"_I ask for Aesculapius to protect, I ask for the angels to bless..."_

They've barely finished charming their wands to alert them when the spell's time limit is up, when Blaise walks into the room, cup of coffee in hand. "Am I interrupting something?" he asks in a mild tone of voice, and that's when Hermione realizes she and Malfoy still haven't moved away from each other.

"We just finished casting Galen's Armor," she says briskly, stepping back.

"Ah." Blaise gestures at the Portkey, which has begun to emit a faint whirring sound. "All set, then? The jungle waits.

* * *

><p>The tribe called it Sleeping Sickness in their own guttural tongue, and it blossomed, along with the heat, on the steamy banks of the Amazon.<p>

"Never seen anything like it," Ernie Macmillan informs the two newly-arrived Healers as they make their way to camp. "Decimated a quarter of the population in less than a month. Mutates at an alarming rate, too. Zabini mentioned some of them have started coughing?"

"Yes," Malfoy replies, picking his way through the mud and stray foliage with great care.

"I sent that report three days ago. Rate of infection has increased since then," Ernie mutters darkly. "Safe to conclude it's gone airborne now."

"What containment measures are in place?" Hermione asks. Even though she knows they won't be able to penetrate the invisible barrier of Galen's Armor, she bats away several mosquitoes on instinct. _Merlin, the bugs here are huge! I think that one was bigger than my thumb-_

"We purify the wells on a daily basis, and as soon as someone manifests symptoms, they're immediately put in the quarantine huts. Since the coughing, we've secured that area with a large-scale Morton Ward that _should _prevent the bad air from leaking out, so to speak... Ah, here we are, then."

They step into a clearing filled with lime green tents, all bearing the insignia of Healers Without Borders: a bone and a wand crossed over a globe. Someone cries her name, and Hermione beams at the sight of Neville's round, bespectacled face scurrying towards them.

"Jolly good to see you!" Neville exclaims, taking her hands. "How're things back home?"

"Fine, Neville." Hermione gives him a hug. "How are you holding up?"

He grimaces. "Terrible. Haven't had a decent night's sleep in months. My team's made a _slight_ headway on the Vaccine Potion. I'd appreciate your input-"

Ernie chuckles. "Let me get the fresh meat settled in first before you roast them on the spit, chap, what do you say?"

"Oh, yes, of course..." Neville trails off, glances behind Hermione's shoulder. "Malfoy," he politely acknowledges.

Malfoy gives a cool nod. "Longbottom."

_Isn't this nice? _Hermione thinks. _Six years ago you boys would have hexed each other on sight. And now here we are in South America, fighting to save an entire tribe from a deadly disease. Funny how the world works at times._

Or maybe, she reflects as Ernie leads them to the only unoccupied tent, the one she'll be sharing with Malfoy, the world's been like this all along, and it's only Time who loves a good joke.


End file.
